Moral Insanity
by SurprisinglySuaveKoala
Summary: When Irene Adler turns up at Baker Street and announces that Sherlock has a baby, he, with the help of John, must face the biggest challenge they could ever imagine and look after this tiny human that they both know nothing about.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, dear readers. I hope you will give this story a go, despite it being a stretch from my usual. I will go back to Klaine again, but I felt I needed a change for a while as I was feeling quite uninspired. This is my first multichapter fic in a fandom other than Glee, so I hope some of my regular readers will read it and some new ones will join me too. I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think.**

**I don't own any of the characters – not in this chapter, at least. **

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><p>Although John Watson woke from nightmares of dark shapes and gunshots at four in the morning due to a searing pain in his shoulder, it was the pungently clean smell of hydrochloric acid that prevented him from slipping back under the dark blanket of sleep and letting it sweep him away.<p>

He rubbed at his bleary eyes and blinked slowly at the darkness of his room, his eyes falling upon the strip of light emerging from the crack of his door. Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed – thankfully, a part of him that was no longer in so much pain – and stumbled groggily to the door, pulling on his robe and entering the kitchen to find Sherlock's long form sprawled across a chair, his head resting on his arms on the table and one hand curled loosely around a test tube, spidery fingers dangerously close to touching the clear liquid inside. John sighed, and gently pulled the solution out of his hand, placing it carefully in a test tube rack. He straightened again and observed the alarming array of bottles and beakers, pipettes strewn across the table and a Bunsen burner lying haphazardly but thankfully unplugged in the fruit bowl that Mrs Hudson had insisted they take at least one piece out of every day.

John supposed he should get used to Sherlock's apparent inability to fall asleep in an actual bed unless drugged or injured, something that happened far more than John was comfortable with, but he nevertheless found himself hauling the man up under the arms and dragging him like a corpse to his room. He was very tall, but John liked to think he was very strong, and he got him into bed without too much strain. In fact, the lifting seemed to have done some good to his shoulder, and perhaps now he could get some sort of rest before the inevitable new adventure that would come their way.

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><p>Strangely, the next day brought no new mysteries. John's blog was still generating plenty of interest, but nobody seemed to have any cases that needed immediate solving; at least, none of interest to Sherlock, as he so very bluntly told those who dared approach him. John was starting to feel like his sympathetic smiles to those who were insulted could only go so far.<p>

Sherlock was growing quickly restless; it seemed his late night chemical work was doing little to satisfy his need for a challenge. When John suggesting simply trying to relax for a little while, he was quickly silenced by a glare so withering it would have had many an army man a little shaken.

His suggestion of a quick lunch trip to Angelo's, however, was a received a little better, and they made their way to the small restaurant and were greeted enthusiastically the moment they entered. Angelo was always pleased to see Sherlock, and John suspected the man's easy acceptance of him was mainly due to the fact that he was under the impression, as many people seemed to be, that the two were a couple, despite being the two most contrasting men he could imagine. Although, John had to admit, it was nice getting so much food on the house and a rather nice candle for their table.

The meal was spent with John explaining to Sherlock why people read his blog, something he could never seem to fathom, and why on Earth people were more interested in the gaps in Sherlock's knowledge and his harassment of the man who dressed up as Santa in a shopping centre than the analysis of different types of perfumes.

John never managed to convince him, of course, but he had to admit it was fairly amusing trying.

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><p>The moment they approached the door to 221b Baker Street, it seemed, Sherlock knew that something was not quite right. John watched as he examined the keyhole, and ran his fingers down the crack between the door and the frame, a frown forming on his pale forehead.<p>

"What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing, taking out his key and unlocking the door with astonishing swiftness, sprinting up the stairs and leaving John to slam the door and hurry after him. The fact that he could hear nothing approaching the apartment was slightly worrying, but what he saw when he entered completely surpassed anything he had anticipated.

In the middle of the room stood Irene Adler.

Her hair was shorter, and dyed a dirty blonde, but it was unmistakeably the same woman. Her red coat matched her lipstick, and the high, slender heel of a long boot tapped the ground insistently. She shifted her weight onto her back leg and surveyed Sherlock carefully, who stood, frozen, in front of her, his face blank and unyielding.

"Hello, Mr Holmes." She said lightly, although John thought he could hear a trembling undertone beneath the flirty exterior. His worried gaze flicked to Sherlock, whose eyes seemed to have hardened.

"Ms Adler." Sherlock said coldly. "Why are you here?"

"You're dead!" John blurted. He realised that she clearly wasn't, given the fact that she was standing right in front of him, but it just felt like something that needed to be pointed out.

Irene turned her gaze to John, smiling playfully. "Do I look dead?"

"That's what I'm struggling with." John mumbled. Sherlock, however, seemed largely unruffled, merely staring at Irene, as if still waiting for an answer.

"Your dear Mr Holmes here was my knight in shining armour." Irene said, walking slowly towards Sherlock to place a hand on his arm. He flinched. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you, actually, about our little meeting in Karachi. I was sentenced to die, but my hero here came to save the day."

"I bet he did." John said slowly, turning to face Sherlock, who now looked a little more like he was struggling to keep his face blank. "When were you going to tell me this?"

"It was irrelevant." Sherlock said quietly. "You wanted me to think I could never see her again."

John felt a little dizzy at this new revelation, but decided to keep from asking any more questions that may complicate things further. The intense way Sherlock and Irene were staring at each other was making him a little uncomfortable, as it always did. He cleared his throat loudly.

Irene took her hand off Sherlock's arm, but still kept her gaze fixed on him as she sauntered around the apartment, inspecting every other surface as she spoke.

"I've been living in America. New Jersey, more specifically, but I like to stay travelling. I've actually made quite a living for myself as an opera singer, actually – well, maybe a more modernized opera singer. They like to see a little leg when they hear me sing, you see." She smiled as she ran a finger along the mantelpiece. "I've actually made quite a name for myself – not my name, of course. I'm Carmen Fox now."

Sherlock still had the same dark, hard look on his face. "You made a name for yourself in – what? A few months?"

Irene smiled. "I know what my audience likes."

John coughed.

She stopped pacing, seemingly satisfied with the place, and lowered herself gracefully into an armchair, crossing her legs.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but John cut him off, not wanting to suffer through anymore of their patent, if slightly awkward flirtations.

"Yes, please."

Irene smiled. "I have good news."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

"I have achieved what could be seen as the impossible." Irene said slyly. "I've made a little mini Sherlock."

John, at this point, thought his eyes would bug out of his head. Sherlock, too, looked alarmed, something that John was not used to seeing, nor would he ever want to be.

"What?" Sherlock asked faintly. "Are you saying –"

"Unless you're suggesting a have cloned your genetic material with that of a dwarf, I believe you know what I'm saying."

"Of course I know what you're saying. I just didn't want you to be saying it." Sherlock said, now seemingly annoyed.

"Excuse me?" John said loudly. "Can somebody please tell me what is going on?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, looking pained.

"We shared… a night in Kensington. I'm quite offended that you didn't tell Dr Watson about our little affair, actually." Irene purred, moving to approach Sherlock, but he held an arm out to stop her.

"I don't _remember _that night." He spat. "You got me _drunk._"

John looked between the two of them, baffled. Spending as much time as he did with Sherlock had educated him in the art of deduction somewhat, and from the things the two were saying, he could ordinarily have worked out what was happening. But what everything was pointing in the direction to was simply so _unlikely_, so… not Sherlock, that he could not bring himself to think about it.

Irene turned to John. "He really does have a very low alcohol tolerance." She said fondly. "He's so very easy when he's intoxicated."

"My God, did you _rape _me?" Sherlock asked, outraged but not particularly angry.

"Don't be silly." Irene brushed him off. "I'm just… very persuasive. I seem to remember convincing you what a _fascinating_ experiment I would be." This time she really did come closer, brushing the back of her hand across his cheek. "It was so hard not to correct… _him_, when he called you the virgin."

Now Sherlock really did look angry. "I don't remember it! You _robbed_ me of part of my brain!"

"_That's_ what you're angry about?" John asked him disbelievingly. He turned to Irene. Maybe if he kept talking he wouldn't have to think about this. "Why didn't you… get an abortion, or something?"

"I wanted to avoid medical procedures, in case somebody recognised me." She said matter-of-factly.

John raised an eyebrow. "Are you really that memorable?"

"Ask him." She smirked, nodding at Sherlock. John rolled his eyes.

"Do you know many American medics?"

"I know what they like." She replied smoothly. Sherlock flinched again.

He didn't look at her, but merely stared over her shoulder at some point on the wall. "Is that all?"

She smiled. "No, that's not all. I'm sure you know why else I'm here."

"Of course I know." Sherlock repeated. "But for once, I wanted to be wrong. "

Irene shrugged. "It would interfere with my new career. I'm _me_, I can't have that in my life."

John, again, felt like he was missing something.

"I'll give you a month to prepare." She said. Then she walked closer to Sherlock, and raised herself to her toes and kissed his cheek. "Good luck, daddy."

Then she sauntered over to the open window, lifting a leg outside, and slipped out, the smack of her shoes outside echoing in the silence as she ran off to who knows where.

John, finally having absorbed the information, took a deep breath, ordering himself to remain calm. He turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back. It was silent for a few seconds.

"You could always… adoption?" John suggested feebly, though he suspected he knew Sherlock's reply.

"No." Sherlock said quietly but decidedly. "This baby has superior genetic material. A regular family wouldn't know what to do with it."

John didn't really know what came over him, but suddenly, he began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Helpless, ongoing laughter that he couldn't seem to stop.

There was a moment when Sherlock just stared at him, but then he joined him in his laughter, albeit in the light of the strangest, and most challenging, situation either of them had ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome to part two! Thank you to reviews and alerters and favouriters and whatnot. Responses are very much appreciated. Enjoy.**

**I don't own anything Sherlockian, they belong to the evil geniuses Gatiss and Moffat.**

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><p>John hadn't been to therapy for a long time.<p>

Partly because Ella had started asking questions he couldn't answer. For instance – why did you move in with Sherlock? You barely know the man. He could be dangerous, psychotic. _He is,_ John refrained from replying, and simply stuttered around some reasoning resembling he needed a flatmate, he was there, it made sense.

It made no sense at all. John was beginning to think that nothing in Sherlock's life made sense to anyone apart from Sherlock.

But John felt alive with Sherlock. He knew this was where he was meant to be. Ella didn't like it, he could tell. When he spoke about any cases or murders he could see past her therapist poker face, see the small frown as she scribbled something to do with 'adrenaline junkie' and labelled Sherlock in her mind as nearly everyone else had; crazy, damaging, bad influence.

Another part of his swift discontinuation of the sessions was the he simply felt he didn't need them anymore; Sherlock _was_ his therapy. There was always something new and exciting, and while nightmares of his army days still plagued him sometimes, it was less now that he had puzzles and clues and experiments on his mind. He had been very lonely for a long time, and Sherlock had cured him of that – not to mention his limp, psychosomatic or not.

Conclusively, for the foreseeable future, John would be living with Sherlock. It was a rather intimate thing – an intimacy than he would have imagined Sherlock had shared with few other people. Mycroft, of course, but that had resulting in hatred on one end and 'concern' on the other, so John wasn't counting that.

But that wasn't to say Sherlock didn't come with flaws, of course. He was maddeningly arrogant, had a blatant and rather irritating disregard for tact or sensitivity when it was not absolutely necessary, and his superior ability to develop life-threatening boredness within a matter of minutes.

So in a way John thought he should probably be thankful for this oncoming infant. They certainly wouldn't be bored for quite a while, if the way Sherlock was sitting on the couch was any indication. He was in one of his favourite thinking positions, you see – feet on the couch, legs crossed and curled around each other, elbows on his knees and chin resting in his hands. He was silent, and John knew better than to try to engage him in any type of conversation until he reached a conclusion.

Just when John started contemplating making some toast, Sherlock jumped up from his position on the coach to stare at John in alarm.

John started, but waited patiently.

"I do not have _any_ information about raising a child. Or babies, or –" He waved a hand wildly in the air, gesticulating dramatically. "Little people."

John frowned. "Nothing at all? You're sure? Surely you were forced to take some sort of… child care class at school, or something."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Must have deleted it – irrelevant. Obviously I didn't anticipate a child in my future. Why would I? They are small, messy, ignorant creatures, always… _making noises,_ I would imagine, unable to tell when one is trying to think or work or – my god, I have no idea what I'm doing. _John!_" He looked at John's face, eyes widening again. "I _don't know._ Anything about this! At _all._ How can that be?"

"Hey, calm down." John reassured him swiftly. He didn't like to think about what would happen if Sherlock didn't know something. Unless it had to do with the solar system. "It'll be fine, don't worry, it'll be – fine." He didn't really know why he was saying fine, actually, because if he had to make a list of fine thing and not-fine things then this situation would probably come under the latter and, _oh,_ Sherlock had probably already made this list. Or – a flow chart or histogram –

"Oh." Sherlock looked suddenly relieved. "You know about babies then? Excellent."

"No, I – Sherlock! No! I don't, not at all." John hated that the look of apprehension was creeping slowly back onto Sherlock's face. "I actually haven't really spent any time with children since – well, I suppose since I was one myself, but what I was _saying_ was, we could easily learn. There are classes for this kind of thing, maybe we could take one?"

"Nonsense." Sherlock said insistently, with a small noise of disgust. "I can't abide classes. It would be much more productive to observe mothers and their children and pick up some information."

"Well, maybe this would be a good time to go and buy some… baby things?" John suggested. "Mothers and children would probably be in places that… sell baby things."

"Good idea." Sherlock said happily. John was glad to see he was finally getting some enjoyment out of this, even if it was just another chance to show off. He kind of hoped he was on his way to showing Sherlock that he didn't _have _to show off for John, that he already knew he was brilliant, but he though maybe a slow and steady pace of compliments would be safer, even if he immensely enjoyed that small look of surprise every time he did. "Let's go!"

John took his coat hastily as Sherlock grabbed his and wrapped a scarf around his neck, bouncing at the opportunity for some deductions at long last. Something he could actually use in everyday life, something that normal people used too.

"Wait!" John halted, an idea occurring to him. "Shouldn't you tell Mycroft? Wouldn't he want to know he's becoming an uncle?"

Sherlock wrinkled his noise, annoyed. "Very well." He sighed. "Get me my phone."

"You know," John said as he produced Sherlock's mobile from under a cushion on the couch. "One day, maybe, you could get it yourself."

"Maybe." Sherlock smiled slightly, looking down and tapping at something.

"Wait, you're going to tell him in a _phone call_?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock looked affronted. "Of course not. I'm texting him."

John simply sighed and came round to peer at the small screen from next to him.

_John and I are having a baby_

_SH_

John frowned. "Sherlock, don't you think –"

_Message sent_

He decided it was no use arguing. Mycroft knew how his brother's brain worked; he wouldn't think anything of it –

John's phone buzzed.

_I asked you to look after him, not get him pregnant. MH_

His eyes widened slightly as he glanced up at Sherlock who was humming as he practically sprinted down the stairs. His phone buzzed again.

_Just don't let him near other people's babies. MH_

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><p>"So from what I have observed, they have three basic components–"<p>

"Sherlock."

"–Pulp, plastics and super absorbers –"

"Sher–"

"–And the proportions of the three materials vary, and they contain different amounts and have a different total mass depending on their size. Furthermore, energy and other input materials, additives, for instance, and adhesive films and colorants are used in their manufacture–"

"SHERLOCK." Sherlock stopped his rant to turn swiftly to look at John, wide-eyed. "Just get a damn nappy. It doesn't matter which one."

"Of course it matters!" Sherlock protested indignantly. "I can't imagine how horrid it would be to be sitting in my own waste all day, so if it is absolutely necessary, the absorber of the waste should be of the best quality possible."

John just sighed.

He should have known that Sherlock would attack the simple task of buying baby supplies like another experiment, with the same enthusiasm and relish even if he had no idea who this baby even was. Perhaps it was the joy of exploring something he had never encountered before.

Once they had got past nappies, milk had to be discussed.

"We don't need it." Sherlock had insisted.

"In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock, you don't have breasts, and if you did we would not be in this predicament."

"We could just make some in the lab, very interesting experiment, I bet it would be far more like real breast milk than any of this shop stuff –"

"No."

"But John–"

"No."

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><p>When they got back to the flat, arms laden with various baby foods and other equipment they were assured by shop assistants they would need, they opened the door to find a beautifully wooden carved crib in the corner of the living room, by the window. John approached it to find a note attached.<p>

_Keep it away from your experiments, dear brother._

_MH_

"God." Sherlock said distastefully, peering over his shoulder. "Let's throw it out."

"Hey, no, we need one of these!" John said, grabbing the side of the crib protectively. "It can't sleep in your bed, can it?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why on earth would it sleep in my bed? It's staying in your room."

"What?"

"We agreed. Well, I said it, and you didn't make any objections."

"Was I even in the room?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I don't know; you have to stop leaving so often, then you would hear everything we talk about."

"Sherlock, it's _your_ baby, it is not staying in my room!" John insisted.

"Well it certainly can't stay in mine. It's not a suitable environment for an infant." Sherlock said, in that frustrated tone that he used when he thought John was being unreasonably slow.

"God – fine, fine. Alright, fine."

They ended up getting a baby monitor, but this was mainly because a woman started talking to them about how it was good if they wanted to get some 'alone time, if you know what I mean' and they felt the need to buy it to make her stop talking.

Once they had bought what appeared to be all the necessary contraptions and foods (that John made Sherlock keep in a separate area of the fridge to the various organs he liked to store in there), it seemed they had barely any time left. In fact, the first time they seemed to get a break, Sherlock's phone lit up with a text.

_One week, Mr Holmes. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome to part three! I hope you enjoy – this chapter is slightly more Mycroft-y, as I seemed to get the idea you guys like him. I like him too. Feedback would be wonderful. I hope you like it.**

**I don't own. **

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><p>Mycroft continued to send them various objects to feather their nest that they were building up, trying to sort through the products of Sherlock's experiments that he had lying around everywhere to try desperately make their flat a little more suitable for a child. John was careful to intercept the deliveries of cabinets, cushions, and crates of fine wine to find things he wanted to keep before Sherlock inevitably sniffed them out and set them on fire during those cosy evenings when John watched his mindless trash telly and Sherlock sat curled up on the floor by his feet like some kind of giraffe-dog, criticizing plot holes and factual inaccuracies.<p>

John rather liked Mycroft – at least, he liked the gifts, and the vaguely amusing notes with childcare tips to Sherlock on them, and he had long since got used to his dramatic flair, not even asking questions anymore when he was taken to meet him in a dimly lit cellar, or an alleyway, or a grand hall in the middle of London. After all, living with Sherlock, not much on the scale of melodramatic could shock him that much anymore.

Sherlock, however, seemed to intensely dislike his brother – a childish feud, John knew, but that didn't mean it was acceptable to take all of his Small Children: Instructions For Use notes and rip them up into confetti, prancing about and sprinkling the pieces around the living room.

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><p>Sherlock frowned as his phone made that noise again. It never shut up, the damned thing. But in the slight hope that it might be Lestrade with a casual case he could work out from home in a matter of minutes, as most of the police's cases were, he picked it up and squinted at the tiny screen.<p>

(14:42) Require assistance? MH

(14:43) No. SH

(14:45) Don't be so proud, Sherlock. MH

(14:46) Any self-respecting individual would decline help from you. I have everything under control. SH

(14:48) Told Mummy yet? MH

(14:50) Go away. SH

(14:51) Maybe I'll tell her. MH

(14:57) John says that telling her myself is part of my process of becoming a father. SH

(14:58) Sweet, but she'll be terribly upset when she finds out everyone knew before her. MH

(15:01) She'll live. SH

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><p>The next person to find out was Lestrade – and consequently, Mrs Hudson.<p>

"Boys! There's a parcel for you!"

Sherlock grunted in disdain, and John rushed to take the brown paper wrapped package from her, placing it on the table and ripping it open to find a casserole dish and a note from Lestrade, the gist of which was that he would miss having Sherlock on every beck and call for interesting cases, and he hoped John didn't go insane from all the cooking. John would resent the issue of everybody assuming he was Sherlock's wife, but given that he's spent the past three weeks organizing papers and extracting parts of lab equipment from obscure places, trying to rectify the appalling situation with the kitchen and drafting a list of rules (Rule 1: No organs in food containers) he didn't really have any evidence that wouldn't point towards his new position as a housewife.

Although, John had to say, he rather liked it. It was quite exciting thinking about it, and frankly the image of a very small Sherlock was almost unbearably endearing.

And so they came to tell Mrs Hudson, awkwardly, that they would be starting to look after a baby in a few days. She looked delighted at the idea (a child was something the married ones next door didn't have), and told them that she knew they would be great daddies.

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><p>(19:55) John makes delicious casserole. How's the diet going? SH<p>

(19:57) Don't know why I didn't sell you to gypsies as a child. MH

(19:58) Also, when did you get married? Why wasn't I invited? MH

(20:00) Because I can't even begin to imagine what kind of horrific wedding present you would have gotten us. SH

(20:02) Also, married to work. Believe in monogamy. Generally. SH

(20:03) Aren't you and work getting a divorce? What with baby and all. MH

(20:05) Work and I are merely on a break. Leave us alone, we're working on our relationship. SH

(20:06) Maybe work would like you better if you weren't cheating on it with John. MH

(20:07) Maybe everyone would like you better if you stopped saying things when you spoke. SH

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><p>Sherlock, under instruction from John, made a trip to Barts to identify some things he had found in the kitchen. He had made the suggestion they keep them all, but John said under no circumstances were they keeping random bits of mould and wood shavings in the flat if they had no more use for them, so Sherlock had to immediately go and look at them all under a microscope and decide if he absolutely <em>must<em> keep them.

Sherlock strode in to see Molly perched on a stool, reading something on her laptop and nibbling tentatively on a Hobnob. She had been all giggly recently because the new intern had been giving her the eye. Sherlock didn't like him. He was an owlish fellow, obviously spent a lot of time playing computer games, and kept asking annoying and pointless questions. Not good enough for her.

"What are you doing here? You don't have a case at the moment, do you?"

"No." Sherlock replied, setting up a microscope and settling himself on a stool. "John's making me identify things he found in the kitchen. Apparently it's not safe to have a baby around bits of potentially poisonous growths."

Molly looked alarmed, her eyes growing wide. "Sherlock, did you steal a baby?"

People had reached this conclusion far more times in the last few weeks than Sherlock had anticipated.

"Of course not. It's my baby. I made it myself." He said proudly. Molly looked a little flushed.

"You… grew a baby?"

"Why are you coming to these conclusions before the most obvious one?" Sherlock asked her, not turning away from the microscope.

Molly spluttered a bit. "It just seems a bit unlikely."

"Well, I'm just full of surprises." He replied monotonously. "When's your date?"

"What?"

"Your nails are painted, your hair is curled, and earlier you were reading an email with a date, time and the name of a restaurant in it. And a heart." Sherlock said, still not looking away from the microscope. "I think I should let my disapproval be known that you are going on a date with someone who uses the letter 'u' instead of writing 'you'."

"Why… would you care about who I go on dates with?" She asked tentatively. It mildly annoyed him how she had recently taken to saying things like he was going to spontaneously combust.

"I would prefer you to have someone suitable to your level on intellect and personality. Granted, it's not high, but I doubt this fine specimen of a man is the one for you."

"Oh."

Sherlock's phone buzzed again. It was probably Mycroft again, the nosy git. He found himself wishing Molly had been his sibling instead of that fat bastard. It would have been a much quieter childhood.

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><p>John got home from buying more milk (seriously, where was it all going? They didn't even <em>drink<em> milk) to find Sherlock playing his violin in front of the window in a slow, soothing way that he had never heard before. It took a second of standing in the doorway, feeling puzzled and slightly nostalgic, for him to recognise the piece as Brahm's Lullaby.

He put the shopping down and walked slowly over to Sherlock, who glanced at him but did not stop playing. John simply perched himself on the arm of the couch, watching him play, until it was over, with a flourish of the bow.

"That was beautiful." John murmured.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I thought I might as well learn something baby-appropriate. I've heard the things don't sleep at reasonable times."

"Sherlock, it's your child. I think it might take more than a lullaby to make it sleep at _all._"

"Don't underestimate the power of a lullaby. This particular one was the only thing that could send me to sleep in minutes when I was a child."

John was suddenly struck by the image of a small, sleepy, curly-haired four-year-old, clutching a teddy bear and rubbing his eyes. The thought was so unbearably adorable he had to sit down properly to cope.

He looked up to see Sherlock staring down at his violin, biting his lip and looking almost… _nervous._ If that was an expression that had ever even registered on his face.

"It'll be here soon. Tomorrow, if not today." He said quietly.

John put a gentle hand on his arm. "Hey. You'll be a great dad."

Sherlock snorted softly. "Emotions. Paternal instinct. What do I know of that?"

John smiled softly. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You can learn. And I'll always be here, as… the baby's honorary uncle."

Sherlock looked up at him, smiling crookedly. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be as much of a father to it as I will be."

John kind of felt like his heart was going to burst.

"Except– biologically, of course–"

"Don't ruin the moment, Sherlock."

"Sorry."

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><p>"Boys! Boys, there's a baby on the– BOYS! <em>Why is there a baby on my doorstep?<em>"

Sherlock's eyes widened as his gaze connected with John's, and they both rushed down to see Mrs Hudson holding a bundle of blankets, a basket discarded on the floor.

"That's ours, Mrs Hudson."

_Ours,_ John thought.

Mrs Hudson frowned. "The adoption agency do have a strange delivery system these days, don't they–"

Sherlock cut her off by carefully taking the bundle of blankets from Mrs Hudson in his arms. John edged closer to peer at it.

The baby blinked curiously up at both of them, light blue eyes shining with a sparkle John recognised. A mass of dark curls lay atop its head, and a very small fist reach out from beneath the layers of blanket to grab at the air. Sherlock, dazedly, it seemed, reached a hand out to it, and the baby's fist curled around a slender finger.

Mrs Hudson clutched her chest, eyes watery, and made a small happy noise. John spotted a piece of paper on the floor, and bent to pick it up as Sherlock remained entranced by the tiny infant.

_His name is Hamish, _It said. _Isn't he gorgeous?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Howdy. Thank you for the response. On to part four, which is regrettably quite a short instalment. Well done to those who figured out why he's called Hamish… :) Enjoy! Comments appreciated!**

**I don't own anything apart from Hamish. He is mine. He stays in the cupboard under my stairs.**

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><p>John, too stunned to say anything, merely looked at Sherlock, who was still staring in fascination at the baby… <em>Hamish<em>, John thought, oh my god, and then at Mrs Hudson, who was tottering over to Sherlock. She cooed at Hamish, stroking a finger over his plump cheek, and gave Sherlock a watery smile. She seemed enraptured by the general tininess of the thing, her motherly instincts this time kicking in on an actual child rather than two fully grown men – although John suspected they both needed as much mothering as this baby would.

"Does the little thing have a name yet?" She asked adoringly, petting the baby's curly head that resembled her favourite detective's so.

"No –"

"Yes." John interrupted. They both turned to look at him. He held up Irene's note. "Hamish."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Mrs Hudson clutched a hand to her heart.

"How precious." She said, clasping her hands together. "I'll let you two get to know him, and maybe I'll bring up some fruit for the little dear, God knows what kind of food you keep up there. Just this once, mind, I'm not your housekeeper."

She gave one last little fond sigh and went back in her apartment, leaving Sherlock and John to go up to theirs, Sherlock still cradling the infant in his arms, looking at it suspiciously.

"Hamish?" He asked finally, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, the baby looking oddly out of place with the suit in the arms of the tall man.

John passed him the note. His eyes flicked over it, and then he tossed it to the side.

"How d'you think she got him here?" John asked.

"Train." Sherlock said decidedly. John have him a questioning look. "The tremors and occasional jolt in the handwriting indicate the vibrations of the train, and where it has stopped and started."

He glanced back down at Hamish. John watched as his forehead crinkled as he scrutinized the baby.

"It is rather… small, isn't it?" Sherlock said, frowning. "How is it supposed to survive? It clearly has no fighting skills. And I would imagine its flight instincts aren't great either, what with those miniscule legs."

"_He_ isn't supposed to fight, Sherlock." John explained exasperatedly. "We're not in the wild, we're in London."

"Same thing." Sherlock muttered. He held the baby out, hands under his armpits. "Take it, John."

John sighed but took Hamish nevertheless. God knows what Sherlock would do with him if he got bored.

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><p>(10:12) How is he? MH<p>

(10:16) Small. SH

(10:17) Small and alive, I trust? MH

(10:19) Thanks to John. Apparently it wouldn't have survived in the fridge. SH

(10:21) Good lord. MH

(10:22) Relax. It was an experiment. SH

(10:23) No experimenting on the baby. MH

(10:24) You take the fun out of everything. SH

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><p>"BORED!"<p>

"Stop _shouting_." John scolded Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and flopped on his back on the couch. He jiggled the baby in what he hoped was a comforting way. Apparently, it was not. Hamish began to cry.

Sherlock sat up straight. "What is it doing _now?"_

"Crying, Sherlock, he obviously wants something. Shh, baby, it's okay, sh sh sh…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No child of mine would be consoled by such fruitless drivel. Give it to me."

John handed him over carefully, and Sherlock held him under the arms like a rag doll and sat him on the sofa.

John glared. Hamish wailed pointedly. Maybe he was hungry? Sherlock, apparently having had the same idea, picked up a piece of apricot Mrs Hudson had left up there on a saucer (one of the few remaining pieces he had not already pounced on) and tried to feed it to Hamish, but the baby batted it away.

He was not, as it turned out, thirsty, either.

He didn't need changing.

He didn't want to sleep.

Even when Sherlock got bored and gave him back to John, claiming that it could be his baby now, there was nothing he could do to stop the incessant wailing.

"Oh my _God_, take him, Sherlock, please."

"No." Sherlock said, from across the room. "You hold him. I will think of solutions from over here."

"He's your son."

"I thought it was yours now."

"He's yours when he's crying. Make him stop."

"I'm _thinking_." Sherlock insisted, giving John a poisonous look. "Ugh, I can't think why it's making that noise."

"Maybe we could call Mycroft? He'll know what to do."

Sherlock stood up abruptly. "We are _not_ calling my brother."

John sighed. Stubborn idiot.

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><p>(20:11) Everything still alright? MH<p>

(20:13) Adequate. SH

(20:14) You've handled the crying? MH

(20:15) Of course. SH

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><p>"Why isn't he sleeping? I feel like he should be sleeping right now."<p>

Needless to say, they had not handled the crying.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "It's just doing it to annoy me." His eyes widened. "What is it trying to stop me from doing? It's been distracting me with the noise – what does it not want me to do that I could have been doing if it had not been –"

"Stop treating your baby like a murder suspect, Sherlock." John ordered.

Sherlock huffed and shoved Hamish at John, swanning away to play his violin.

John blinked tiredly at the baby, who was red in the face, tiny fists pounding his chest. "Please, Hamish. If you don't stop he'll put you in the fridge again, and you don't want that, do you?"

The baby quieted for a split second, but before John could enjoy it, he was wailing again.

"Oh for God's sake."

Sherlock started playing from across the room, bow sliding across strings smoothly.

And then, amazingly, Hamish stopped crying. John nearly passed out with relief.

There was not a tear track on his face, which suddenly looked calm and perfectly at ease. His tiny hands relaxed, one rubbing sleepily at his eyes, the other clutching loosely at John's jumper.

John's wide-eyed gaze snapped up at Sherlock. He looked tremendously pleased with himself.

"I knew that would work."

"No you did not."

"Yes I did."

John turned to Hamish. "Don't worry. In another thirty years you can describe all this to a therapist, she'll sort you out."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! Apologies for the late update – this website was being stupid and wouldn't let me log in, so I couldn't update or answer any of your reviews. But it's okay now. I hope you like it. Drop me a comment or an ask on tumblr. Enjoy! :)**

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><p>Coming home to see Anderson, Donovan, and a few others from Scotland Yard searching his flat was not the way John had expected his day to end.<p>

After an exhausting amount of time traipsing around various shops and stores to find the correct clothes and shoes for a baby of Hamish' size, John had actually been hoping he might be able to come home to a nice cup of tea and some television. But no.

He opened the door to see several police members tearing open cupboards and peering under cushions, while Anderson stood and instructed them around the flat, looking tremendously pleased with himself.

Sherlock, however, was sitting perfectly calmly in his armchair, observing those around him with mild distaste, but not a hint of worry. John felt like this shouldn't put him as at ease as it did.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" He asked over the chatter of the intruders. "Please tell me this isn't another drugs bust."

"Not exactly." Sherlock replied, finally taking his eyes off the searchers to roll his eyes at John. "Anderson is convinced that my withdrawal from major cases is… suspicious. It must mean I am involved in some sort of criminal activity, the evidence for which these misguided people are searching for in here right now."

John gaped. "But –"

"Oh, don't worry, Lestrade is on his way to sort him out." Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively.

Donovan spun around quickly from rifling through papers. "When Lestrade arrives he'll arrest you, freak. You, too, probably, Dr Watson. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Sherlock glared at her.

"Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" Lestrade said as he strode in, eyebrows raised. Sherlock waved a hand at Donovan. "Who gave you permission to–"

"Aha!" Anderson's voice was heard from the vicinity of John's bedroom. He emerged, holding Hamish up in a way that reminded John eerily of the first scene in the Lion King. "I told you! See here, Detective Inspector, a poor, innocent baby."

There were gasps from around the room, and Donovan's jaw dropped open and pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock. "You monster!"

Lestrade, completely ignoring Anderson's triumphant smirk, walked to him and took the baby from his grip, cradling him in his own arms and rocking him soothingly in such a fatherly manner that rather detracted from his serious expression.

"Don't be ridiculous, Anderson. This baby legally, and biologically, belongs to Sherlock." Lestrade told him. Anderson's eyed widened, and he looked rather like his mind was imploding. There were more gasps, and Donovan looked about ready to faint.

"Are you crazy?" He said, outraged, looking around at the rest of the team for support, finding only mild amusement from most. "He can't look after a child!" He spat, glaring at Sherlock. "He can barely look after himself! He'd be the most incompetent parent imaginable– it's cruelty to this baby! You can't possibly let him–"

"That's enough, Anderson." John cut in, feeling anger rise in his chest. He never thought he'd feel as if he should defend Sherlock from an attack on a possible insecurity, but the look on his face signalled to John that he wasn't taking the insults as well as usual. Sherlock looked at him, his expression morphing from anger to surprise. "I think you and your team should leave."

Lestrade carefully transferred Hamish from his own arms to John, before waving everyone out. A few smiled apologetically at the baby, one or two waving their fingers at him as Hamish blinked back, unimpressed. Donovan just gave Sherlock another glare, filing out reluctantly as he raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade was the last to leave, nodding at the two men. "I'm sorry about them. They shouldn't have done that, especially Anderson. I'll have a word with him."

"It must be encouraging to employ a man who you have to treat like a child." Sherlock said simply. Lestrade ignored him.

"Well, goodbye." He bent down to Hamish' eye level and poked a finger at his stomach. "Bye bye, Hamish!" He cooed in such an un- Detective Inspector like way that John had to stifle a laugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes at he straightened up again and nodded at them again. "Good luck, boys."

When the door closed behind him, John slumped back into his armchair across from Sherlock with Hamish resting on his chest, and sighed. He was now even more exhausted than he was before – too exhausted to get some tea. He briefly entertained the idea of asking Sherlock to make his some, but then caught himself and nearly snorted at the idea.

He looked at Sherlock. "You know, you could have just told them."

"It was more dramatic this way."

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><p>Molly didn't really know what to think of the whole Sherlockbaby extravaganza. The very idea of the tall, dark, mysterious detective looking after a small, vulnerable child was an idea so absurd she couldn't even begin to picture it. Well, that wasn't _strictly_ true – she did have some images in her mind of Sherlock being fatherly in his own little way – but they were so unlikely she didn't even consider them to be true.

So she was not surprised when Sherlock and John came into the lab at Barts, and John was the one holding the little baby. It seemed they had not invested in a buggy or anything of the sort, judging by the way John was awkwardly carrying the little thing around as Sherlock strode in.

"Hi, Sherlock!" Molly chirped nervously – Sherlock had that determined look in his eyes again.

He turned around, frowning. "Oh… hello, Molly."

"We've just come to introduce Hamish to his second home." John supplied helpfully, gesturing to the baby.

"Yes, apparently it must become used to the surroundings." Sherlock murmured, wandering around the lab.

Molly dithered a little, her eyes flicking over to the baby. "Could I maybe… hold him?" She asked tentatively.

John looked surprised. "Uh, yeah, sure– I guess–" He looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be paying no attention. He passed Hamish over to her carefully. Molly peered at his large, blue eyes and the mop of curly hair on his head and positively melted. Hamish blinked back up at her, reaching a small hand out, tiny fingers closing around a strand of hair that fell from her bun and tugging gently.

"_Aww._" Molly cooed. "You're so adorable! Yes you are, you little cutie."

Hamish giggled.

Sherlock frowned.

"Looks like he likes you." John said. "What do you think, Sherlock? I think he'll be in pretty good hands with his Aunt Molly."

"What is she doing?" He hissed as Molly gently bounced Hamish from side to side, biting lightly at his fingers as he gripped her teeth.

John shrugged, but suddenly Sherlock's irritation morphed into a more scheming look.

"Maybe she'd be willing to babysit…"

"No, Sherlock." John said finally. "You are not handing your baby away to Molly."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded. "She's clearly in love with the thing."

John sighed, looking at his searchingly. "Only if she offers."

They were both pulled from their conversation by a particularly loud giggle, and looked over to see Hamish pulling at Molly's ear, making happy noises. Molly smiled at him and looked over at Sherlock and John.

"I'll babysit anytime!" She called, beaming.

Sherlock looked maddeningly triumphant.


End file.
